The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,8

woods.

“But are you bringing your daughter up as a Christian?”

“To the best of my abilities, Brother. I cannot read. I have no scriptures. I know only the rudimentary facts myself. I’m no different from the other Highlanders. We are a simple folk. We are also superstitious. Go back to Inverness. The Buchanans there need you more.”

“Are you in contact with your family, then?”

The wind was rushing louder, a constant rippling among the flowers and he closed his eyes briefly, imagining himself outside. Free. “We do not know each other.”

“But your mother—”

“I’ve never known her. I was sent to Angus Castle at four. I have no recollection of her.” He hesitated, his fingers wrapping about the pipe stem, the wood smooth and warm in his hand. He lifted his head and his dark eyes fastened on the monk. “She is alive, then?”

“Yes, and your brothers. At least Michael, Rory, and John. The first two work at trade, the last, John, is at sea.”

After being alone so long up here, he found it difficult to picture all of them: Michael had been the eldest, then Kirk, Rory, Alan, and the youngest, John, whom they had always called Troy. As he said each of the names to himself, he pictured his brothers’ faces. In his mind, they would always be like him, just lads. Nothing more than hungry young boys who always wanted something more to eat.

“What of Alan? Where is he?”

“Dead. The same epidemic that killed him took your brother, Michael’s family.” He waved his hand in front of his face, flushed, still hot from the climb. “Now the girl—”

“My father?”

The friar shrugged, exasperated. “He left the family years ago. I believe he drowned shortly afterwards.”

“Drowned?”

“If I recall, he worked on a fishing vessel. Was drunk, fell over, and that was the end of him.”

The falconer kicked the embers of the fire. He watched the red lump break apart and crumble into hot glowing dust. His voice was low, cold when he spoke. “As I said, Brother, the Buchanans need you more there than we need you here.”

“Why don’t you take the lass back with you? This is no life for a child.”

“I can’t go back. There is nowhere for me to go. Macleod’s ban extends far and wide. Other lords are honoring the decree. I, the Macleod falconer, can go now here but up and down this hillside.”

“And Cordaella?”

“Cordaella is happy here. For her, this is home. How can she want more? To her four-year-old mind, this is what the world should be. Meadows and rivers and animals. She has a playground bigger than any other northern child. No one else lives so high, and this,” he said, stretching his hand out, gesturing to Ben Nevis in the background, “this she believes is all hers.”

“And her soul? What of that?”

Hearing the cowbell shake in the doorway, Kirk glanced up. Their cow stood in the open door, peering through. Cordaella would not be far behind. “She is not an orphan. She has a father. She is but a wee thing yet; my God would not make me give up my child.”

“This is not Abraham sacrificing Isaac, Brother—”

“Good, because I will not.” Kirk’s black eyes narrowed, the features savage. He had lived too long among the lonely peaks of Scotland, nearly six and a half years; it had been a difficult adjustment, but now he was at ease with no company but his own and the girl’s. “My child shall not be brought up by strangers. I love the lassie too much.”

“If you love her so—” The priest broke off as a high-pitched whistle pierced the air.

Moments later a brown face peeped through the doorway.

“Papa!” The child’s voice, although pitched soft and urgent, was unusually husky for a child so young. Her eyes were pale, a faint shade of gray.

“Come, child,” Brother Lyles encouraged, working a warm smile to his round face.

She had spotted the visitor from afar earlier and hidden herself in the meadow waiting for him to leave. But the hours passed and he—this enormously fat man—remained.

Restless at last, Cordaella returned to the cottage.

“Come, my dear”, the monk repeated.

Kirk suddenly saw her as the brother must. She looked as ragged as any street urchin, only slightly cleaner. Her face and hands were relatively clean, but her long black hair hung in a dirty, poorly braided plait down her back, loose curling wisps in her face secreting those unusual eyes.

Cordaella reached for the open door, pulling it close against her. She hid